Silly Pickles, Closets are for Clothes
by Fairy Laughing
Summary: A short piece to commemorate coming out of the closet day. One does not simply withhold secrets from Oprah. slashy, but no real pairings


**Title:** Coming Out, or: Silly Pickles, Closets Are for Clothes

**Author:** Fae Touched

**Beta: **Supes

**Summary:** A short piece written to commemorate International Coming-Out (of the closet) Day (October 11th).

**WARNINGS:** Cuss words. Homosexuality. Tightie-whities. Oprah. No major infractions.

**Disclaimer:** All recognizable characters belong to their respective owners; Dethklok to Brendan Small and Tommy Blacha, and Oprah to herself in this case. This is a work of fiction and no profit is made by writing it. I don't actually know what team Pickles plays for, but you'll have to admit that William makes a compelling argument.

**Coming Out**

**or**

**Silly Pickles, Closets Are for Clothes**

**By Fae Touched**

It was the morning after that Pickles realized what he had admitted to – or what counted as morning by Mordhaus standards. He was laid across his bed, not sure how he'd gotten there; however, he was quite sure of the Admission since it had taken several security guards to get him away from the paparazzi that had been pursuing him following said Admission. Fucking Oprah had gotten it out of him, Oprah of all people. Aside from Oprah's show (a PR appearance he'd failed to mention because… well… they'd make fun of him) he knew the Admission would be on the Dethklok Minute when he turned it on, not to mention publicized widely to all the other media sources. He was sure it was on the front cover of all the tabloids this morning, but it wasn't so much the _world _hearing the Admission that Pickles was worried about, not terribly. It was his _band mates_ hearing it; they'd never let him live this down.

It would be amazing if Pickles could stop them from hearing it, but he somehow doubted that. Still, he'd give it a shot. He rushed out in his tightie-whities, pulling a robe over them but not tying it up, and found the rest of the band in the main living room. Toki and Skwisgaar were arguing over something, Nathan was talking into his recorder, and Murderface was channel surfing. That last one was what he had to be worried about.

Nathan turned off his recorder as Pickles entered the room, "Hey."

Murderface seemed to settle on the Dethklok Minute, just as it was starting up, and Pickles protested loudly, "I wanted ta watch somethang, it's on right now."

"What is it?"

"Channel eighty-three."

"Uh… PBS?"

"Yeh, PBS." Pickles sincerely hoped it'd be something interesting… perhaps some Civil War stuff would pique Murderface's curiosity?

"I wanted to see if my cock schlap performanshe got broadcashted."

"Who cares if it gawt broadcasted, there's a really interesting show on PBS."

"Geezshe this had better be good." Murderface swore, punching in 'eight' and 'three' on the remote.

Toki and Skwisgaar looked up from their Scandinavian hair-pulling battle, and even Nathan looked mildly interested.

Oh god, why did it have to be the Antiques Roadshow? There weren't even weapons or armour that would have the band members interested – they were currently discussing a sewing machine, and after that they said they'd look at some interesting pottery, and then some dolls following the break.

"Uh… schure you didn't get the time wrong?" Murderface asked.

"Pickles, we need to talk PR," Ofdensen said, coming into the room as well, an entertainment newspaper in one hand and a vexed look across his face.

Pickles was sweating buckets now. "Ah… abowt that…"

Murderface flipped back to the Dethklok Minute.

"Hey, I was watchings dat," Toki complained.

"Oh ja? You likings de Antique Roadshows, Toki? Ha! Yous is gayers dan I was thinkings."

Wonderful, Skwisgaar was all warmed up for insulting purposes.

"Wow Picklesh, you were on Oprah?" Murderface cranked up the volume.

There it was, in painful play-by-play… he looked at himself in horror.

Pickles was half in and half draped over an armchair next to Oprah, in her own. Two mugs were on the stylish glass coffee table in front of them, Oprah's with ordinary coffee and Pickles' with Irish coffee. Pickles was clearly drunk, high, and possibly on something else. He looked at the camera blearily and took a big swig out of his mug.

"So," Oprah leaned forward, like a conspiratory girlfriend sharing a secret, "the rumours about your sexuality. Are they true?"

The bitch! The _FIEND!_

Pickles would've told everyone about the time he stole from his grandmother's purse in the state he was in now. He was ready to reveal all of his deepest, darkest secrets to the world if he were asked in the right way, and Oprah had asked.

One does not simply withhold secrets from Oprah.

"What rumours?" Pickles laughed, "I thaught it was pretty fuckin' crystal clear I was gey?"

"There you have it," Oprah's show panned out to the usual Dethklok Minute host, half his face melted off. "Right from the source! Pickles the Drummer has ad–"

Pickles had managed to extract the remote from Murderface by then, so it was switched off. He stood in front of the TV screen held up by hooks, in his underwear and open robe, looking devastated.

The rest of the band and Ofdensen looked at the clearly distressed Pickles.

"Please don' kick me outta the band!"

"Uh… why would we do that?" Nathan asked.

"'Cause… er… ah'm gey?"

"Thish is newsh?"

"You knew?" Pickles was confused; he thought he'd concealed it fairly well, but no one seemed especially phased by his Admission.

"Well, yes," said Ofdensen, "though the public didn't need to know. We're going to have to discuss your tendency to appear in front of cameras while fantastically inebriated…"

"You… all knew?"

Skwisgaar snorted, "Ja. Remember dat time we was really drunks and yous tries to grabs my ass?"

"It's… a nice ass?" Pickles commented.

"It is," Toki agreed quietly.

"Maybe," Nathan said, "but that's still pretty fucking gay."

"Ah'm… and… um… ye're all okay wit' this?"

"It's not metal, but whatever," Nathan said, "I don't care."

Murderface used his usual tact, "What you put in your assh isn't my bushinessh."

Ofdensen on the other hand looked at the important stuff, "So long as it doesn't impact record sales. Again, we need to talk PR…"

"It isn'ts surprising," Toki shrugged.

"No more grabbings my ass is all I's sayingks," Skwisgaar said.

"But… how did'ya…?"

"How did we know? Two and a half wordsh," Murderface told him. "Schnakes n' Barrelsch."


End file.
